


Third Definition

by khasael



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's caring for your associate, and then there's <i>caring</i> for your associate. There might also be a third definition in play here, and that's actually the one that worries Harvey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Definition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajaLi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/gifts).



It's chance that Harvey looks up at just the right moment to see that the gentleman who has Mike cornered is completely oblivious to the fact that his partner in conversation is not even remotely interested in what he has to say. Mike's eyes are locked on the DA's face like his life depends on maintaining focus but, even from here, Harvey can see the strained look on his face, and the way his throat works. And he knows that something's wrong, and Mike needs out of there.

He excuses himself from Senator Abernathy, who is only too happy to have a chance to chat with Jessica alone, and slides himself between Mike and District Attorney Carmichael. He doesn't look back, only turns his head slightly to the side so Mike can hear him say "Go. Take care of whatever it is," out of the corner of his mouth. "John," Harvey says warmly, extending his hand and angling the man away from Mike, who practically runs away, headed for the stairs instead of the elevator. "Heard you and your wife ended up with twins. Just wanted to give you my congratulations."

The DA thanks him, getting that puffed-up proud papa look before his phone rings and he ducks his head. "Speaking of my better half," he says with an embarrassed grin, gesturing to his screen.

"No, of course," Harvey replies, thankful to be let out of conversation so easily. He waves a goodbye and heads for the stairs himself, hoping that, wherever Mike tore off to, he managed to avoid falling down a flight or two and breaking his neck in his haste.

It seems for all his sprinting, Mike hasn't gotten that far after all. The door to Pearson Hardman's level is just clicking shut as Harvey hits the flight above it, and he steps out of the stairwell in time to see Mike's back as he half walks, half falls into the men's room.

When Harvey walks in, Mike's staggering toward a stall, already retching with a hand clamped over his mouth. He's running blind, Harvey can see it. So when Mike fumbles in getting the door open, Harvey steps forward, yanks it open, and directs Mike in, all with quick, silent movements.

And not a moment too soon. Mike barely hits the floor before Harvey gets an eyeful of everything the kid's eaten today, and Harvey's just glad he's doing this here, and not back up on that rooftop. Nothing puts a sour note on a career like public embarrassment. And this isn't some minor incident, a reaction to nerves that got a little out of hand. This is intense and violent, the kind of thing that makes Harvey remember a dozen colorful euphemisms for what Mike's currently doing, and Harvey moves forward into the stall without a lot of thought, acting on instinct, as he usually does.

If there's one thing that hits Harvey several minutes later, as he stands in the men's room with his hand lightly resting on Mike's back just below the nape of his neck, it's that there's caring for your associate, and then there's _caring_ for your associate.

There might also be a third definition in play here, with a much different inflection. That's actually the one that worries him.

Harvey waits, his touch light but firm, as Mike kneels on the linoleum and takes quick, shallow breaths. They've been here nearly fifteen minutes now, and the kid's _got_ to be empty by this point. "Done?" Harvey asks as Mike sits up a little straighter, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and wiping at his mouth. 

"Dunno." Mike's voice is hoarse, and it's no surprise whatsoever, given everything. He looks up at Harvey, eyes red and watering and face flushed. "Hope so."

"So," Harvey says quietly, hearing a steady drip from one of the sinks. "You have a few too many too early?"

Mike groans, and Harvey can feel the vibrations through his hand, which still rests on Mike's back. He's removed it a few times, but it still keeps finding its way back. "I only had one, I swear, Harvey. I know you told me tonight was not the night to be stupid and do something which might get us caught."

"Then was it the food from earlier? Too much, or too rich?" He hadn't had anything Mike had eaten, and he felt fine. But Mike had wolfed down his meal, seemingly without breathing, and God only knew how the combination of things he'd had on his plate had decided to cooperate.

"Oh God, please don't talk about —" But that's as far as he gets before he's leaning forward again, gagging and choking, and Harvey wrinkles his nose as Mike makes yet another offering to the porcelain god. He's always hated the sound of someone else being sick, but it's not anything he can't actually handle. 

_Well, that's one answer we'll chalk up as a 'yes'_ , Harvey thinks, glad to know that at least the kid's not been stupid enough to get flat-out drunk with this crowd. Disappearing halfway into the night isn't the best move, either, but it's better than vomiting all over the shoes of a district attorney, which Mike had been dangerously close to doing. 

He sighs and steps quickly from the bathroom, striding toward Donna's desk. She's got a small stack of dixie cups in her bottom drawer, bigger than the ones at the water cooler, and Harvey grabs one and heads back to the men's room after filling it with cold water. Mike looks up at him in surprise when Harvey opens the door of the stall again, looking more miserable than anyone should when Harvey's not sticking it to them. "Here," he says, holding out the cup. "Drink that. _Slowly_." He's not sure when exactly he became Mike's goddamned babysitter, but it's more the combination of motives behind his choice than the appointment that has him thinking.

"Thanks." Mike's smart enough not to gulp it down, at least, so some of that feeling of babysitting resides. In fact, it takes him a good two and a half minutes to drain the paper cup, using the last of it to rinse his mouth, before he hands it back to Harvey, who has the insane urge to quote _Wayne's World_ — _if you're gonna spew, spew into this_ — before he tosses the cup and tells himself that, while he might admit to knowing the movie if Mike quotes it, he will never personally quote Dana Carvey.

Besides, Harvey thinks that if he uses the word "spew" right now, Mike might do just that.

"You all right?"

Mike takes a very slow, very deep breath with his eyes closed before he lets it out and looks up at Harvey from the floor. "Yeah. I think so."

"Good. Get up. Let me get a look at you."

Standing on legs that make him wobble like a goddamned baby deer, Mike grabs onto the handicap railing at his side and stands still, letting Harvey scrutinize him. The knees of his pants are dirty, his shirt's damp with sweat, and his tie — one of the few decent ones he's worn on his own — is still slung over one shoulder, thanks to Harvey's quick movements just before Mike's knees hit the floor.

"How bad is it?"

"...I'm getting really tired of you wearing my suits, kid," he sighs. "That is, if you think you can even go back out there."

He can see Mike start to insist he can do it, that whatever it was that hit him has passed, but then he goes pale green and swallows hard. Yeah. No. That's not happening. Not for a handful of different reasons, not the least of which is that Harvey doesn't want his associate — not just _an_ associate, but _his_ associate — losing whatever's left of his lunch on someone who will remember it at just the wrong time later. 

"Never mind," he says, already hitting the appropriate number on his speed dial. "You're done for the night. What's your address?"

"Huh?"

"Your address. Ray's going to need it to get you home."

"I can't go home. They're —" He makes a choked noise Harvey recognizes entirely too well and closes his eyes, one hand moving up to rest on his stomach. "— They're fumigating my place. I'm staying at Jenny's while she's out of town."

"Not anymore you're not," Harvey mutters as the phone stops ringing, someone finally picking up the other end. "Ray. Sorry about the hour. I need a pickup. Pearson Hardman. Just to my place." He thinks for a moment. "Bring a couple plastic grocery bags, if you can find them." 

Mike starts to protest, something stupid about his bike, and Harvey just glares until he shuts up; he leads Mike out of the men's room and to the elevator with his hand at the small of Mike's back, helping to propel him forward. He leaves Mike leaning with his forehead pressed against the wall, eyes closed, for just a moment. "Stay here. Don't move."

"Moving's practically the last thing on my mind," Mike mumbles as Harvey walks away. He's back within a minute or two, an empty wastebasket in his hand. "I'm not hurling in your trash can, Harvey," he says as he cracks one eye open. "It's probably platinum or something, and I can't afford to replace that."

"It's just aluminum," Harvey says, rolling his eyes, and then he can't help but smirk. "Besides, ruin it all you want. It belongs to Louis."

Mike gives him a weak grin, still leaning against the wall for support. "Well, in that case, I almost hope I have to use it." He shudders, and Harvey steps forward, his hand on Mike's back once more. Mike hasn't said a word yet about Harvey's frequent touching and steadying, making some crack about comfort or caring about him or anything else, and he certainly hasn't shied away from the touch. Harvey's pretty sure that means even _he_ knows he needs the support.

"Come on, kid. Outside to wait for Ray. Fresh air'll do you good."

Mike looks so miserable on their way down to the lobby that Harvey almost wants to let himself rub the kid's back. He doesn't, though. That runs a little too close to that supposed third definition of "caring" that he's trying to avoid thinking about. Instead, he just hands Mike the wastebasket and keeps one hand hovering, not quite resting on Mike's back, but coming awfully close. He hears Mike groan when the elevator hits the lobby, the floor bobbing back up beneath them as it levels itself with the correct floor. "Easy there," he murmurs, and his hand's on Mike's back again, this time just between his shoulder blades, before he even notices and pulls his hand away. 

It's increasingly worrisome how automatic his movements to touch and comfort Mike are becoming.

The crisp air does seem to do Mike some good. He's still pale, but he doesn't look quite so green; his lips are now just a very pale pink instead of practically white. He gets Mike into the car several minutes later, the wastebasket propped between his knees, and shakes his head at Ray, who's giving him the closest thing he's ever seen to an irritated look directed his way. "He won't make a mess," Harvey says, taking the silently-offered plastic drugstore bag. "And if he does, I'll pay to have this thing triple-cleaned."

Ray laughs a little and nods, looking more at ease. "Any particular music selection this evening?"

"No. Just something quiet, without vocals."

"I might just have something that fits the bill."

Harvey thanks Ray and slides into the car, trying not to jostle Mike. Because, really, the kid obviously feels awful, and Harvey doesn't want to make him feel any worse. He also doesn't want to lose this suit — it's one of his favorites and, at nearly fifteen hundred dollars, he _really_ doesn't want to have to hope that the dry-cleaners could get the mess or the smell out of it, if it came to that. 

They pull out into traffic and Harvey picks out the soft saxophone melody of Dave Brubeck's _Take Five_ from the speakers. Not a bad choice on Ray's part, though the five-four time might not be quite as ideal as something in four-four. Still, it's calming and, if they're lucky, the right balance of distracting and inobtrusive. 

"I could have ridden my bike home," Mike murmurs after a while, his eyes closed while his head is tipped backward, propped on the headrest. It's one of the few full sentences he's uttered since Harvey noticed how _off_ he looked back up on that rooftop, surrounded by dozens of people who could break his career before it really even started. 

"I somehow doubt that," Harvey says with a small snort. "If you'll recall, you couldn't even make it off that roof and to the nearest bathroom without my help."

"Would've managed." But then his breathing goes all harsh and quick again, and Harvey can see his fists clench as he tries to fight back the waves of nausea. Fuck. He'll absolutely pay to have the upholstery and carpets cleaned, if it comes to it, but Harvey'd prefer to save himself the money, Ray the trouble, and Mike the embarrassment. 

"Slow breaths," Harvey says firmly, and something in Mike changes at the tone, much as he always seems to snap to when Harvey gives him an order in the office. "Nice and slow. We're almost there." Mike shudders but gives it a shot, eyes squeezed shut while he hunches over in his seat, wastebasket now in his arms. Harvey does sort of have to admire his determination in this. Nausea's one of those things that turns most people into a whimpering, helpless mess, but Mike's actually trying to hold his own. Whether that's to do with not wanting to make a mess in Ray's car, or just being sick of being sick, or any other reason, Harvey can't say. But still, it's plain he's putting in some effort. "There you go."

Harvey thinks Mike may be over the worst of it, after all, by the time he gets him up to his apartment. It's been almost an hour since Mike's last been sick, and he's at least looking around, eyes in focus, as they walk inside and Harvey shuts the door behind him. 

"This place is even nicer from the inside," Mike says with his eyes sort of wide, as he glances around the place. "I meant what I said — I'd be happy to watch it while you went out of town at some point."

Harvey shakes his head and hangs up his jacket. "Nice try." Now that they're in his place and Mike's not lit by the fluorescents from the office bathroom, he can see just how much the evening's taken a toll. He should be in bed at home, but fumigation has ruled that right out. And he sure as hell doesn't want Mike with Jenny, who might be just as bad in some ways as Trevor, or even shut up all alone in her apartment. So that leaves here, where at least Harvey can keep an eye on him, even if his plans for the night have sort of gone to hell. "Your suit's a mess. I'll get you something else to wear for now. Anything else you need?"

"Directions to your bathroom, before I puke on your floor," is the reply, and Harvey doesn't even need to look at Mike to realize he's not joking or exaggerating.

"On your left," Harvey says, pointing, and Mike's gone before he even gets to add "last door at the end of the hall" to his directions. He hears a door slam — what sounds like the correct one, and he sure as hell hopes so because, otherwise, he's going to lose a lot of shoes, or maybe a good rug — and then he can hear Mike heaving in a way that sounds distinctly painful. 

"Jesus," Harvey mutters, running a hand through his hair. "What the hell did that kid eat?" It might be time to consider looking into a small suit against that diner, or at least a good threat, invoking the office of the Health Department. He makes his way into the bedroom and pulls an old T-shirt and pair of pajama pants from a drawer, then swings by the kitchen and digs a nearly-forgotten can of 7 Up out of the back of the fridge, left over from the last time a guest had decided to make them Seven and Sevens. He might have crackers somewhere in a cupboard but, if he does, it's a fifty-fifty shot they're full of cheese and spices, and that's the last damn thing Mike needs right now.

He knocks on the bathroom door just once, not asking permission, but simply announcing his presence. Mike doesn't even look at him when he enters. He just laughs a little and flushes the toilet. "This is definitely the fanciest place I've ever thrown up," he says weakly.

"Happy to make this a special day ," Harvey says, shaking his head. "Next time, aim for the White House or the Vatican. Here." He sets the pajamas on the side of the tub. "Change into those, whenever you finish. I brought you something to settle your stomach, too."

Mike just looks at him with bloodshot eyes. "Why'd you bring me here? Why'd you even leave the event tonight?"

It's one of the questions Harvey's been asking himself all night. There might be a hundred and forty-six different answers, but none of the ones he can say feels like a big enough piece of the puzzle to suffice. It would have been perfectly easy to let Mike run off toward the bathrooms on his own, and nearly as easy to help him to the men's room and leave him there to do as he needed. Nothing said he had to do anything but check on his associate to make sure he hadn't passed out and hit his head and, really, there wasn't even anything that said he had to do that.

He certainly didn't need to stand there with his hand on Mike's back while he saw the afternoon's meal in reverse, nor get him a glass of water afterward, and he absolutely didn't have to take Mike across town to his apartment in a private car, just to be sure he'd be okay. Nothing at all said he had to _care_ for Mike.

Only he did. Because he cares for Mike, much as it pains him to admit it. Damn that third meaning of the word.

"I wanted to be sure you'd be all right," he finally says. It's as close to the truth as he can allow himself to admit aloud. "You're my associate. You're my responsibility."

"Yeah, when I'm working on a case for you," Mike says, finally pulling himself up a bit and turning to look at Harvey. "This is sort of different."

It is, and it would be stupid to argue against it. "Just shut up and change out of those clothes," he sighs. "Unless you can think of anything else you need?"

"Do you have a gun stashed somewhere so you can put me out of my misery?" Harvey just looks at him and raises his eyebrows. "Then no, nothing else." Mike stands very carefully and undoes the remaining buttons on his shirt, tossing it and the tie that's still over his shoulder onto the floor. He changes into Harvey's old shirt, a faded Harvard baseball T-shirt from forever ago, so worn that the crimson letters are now just sort of a dusky red on thin, practically translucent white cotton. "Fits me better than your suit did," he mumbles, reaching for the pants. Harvey doesn't even wait to be asked; he walks out of the bathroom and back toward the living room, wondering what, exactly, he does now.

Mike finally shuffles into the living room, still pale, and now with circles above his cheekbones so dark it they look like someone's blacked both his eyes. "Don't suppose you've got any crackers?"

Harvey gets up without a word, stuffing his left hand into his pocket before it can come up to linger at Mike's back as he walks by. The kid still looks miserable, but now it seems to be a combination of physical misery and something he's unhappy about, and Harvey's hand seems to be wondering if a few moments of contact will help. 

There are Saltines in the cupboard, a whole box, minus half a sleeve, and he pulls out an unopened one and hands it to Mike. "Settle yourself on the sofa," he says, taking in the surprised and plainly grateful look on Mike's face at these words. "Try to get some sleep. I'll call you a cab in the morning."

Mike looks at him for several moments, the crackers forgotten in his hands. "I..." he says after a moment, then stops, frowning. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?"

Harvey just gives him a look. "You've shown up at my apartment in the middle of the night, drunk. You've spilled a briefcase full of pot at my feet. You've had to associate with Louis in a locker room. And _this_ is embarassing?"

Sitting carefully on the sofa, Mike just sighs. "It's a whole new kind of embarrassing, actually."

There's a slight flush on Mike's cheek now, and, from the way he's suddenly not looking at Harvey, and the way he's angled toward him anyway, Harvey gets this faint glimmer of what might be understanding. He hasn't moved away from Harvey once this evening, hasn't told him not to touch him, hasn't asked him to leave. He allows himself to consider why this might be for a moment, keeping quiet as he does so.

"Never mind," Mike says, suddenly interested in getting the crackers open. "I should just be glad Louis wasn't the one to find me in the bathroom or something."

"He'd have run from the room the second you gagged that first time," Harvey says, still thinking. He sits down next to Mike, but doesn't look at him, opting instead to look at the television, which he flips on absently with the remote on the coffee table. Neither of them says anything for a very long time. Mike nibbles on the crackers and sips at his soda while Harvey pretends he's interested in the comedy movie that's playing on the television. Eventually, Harvey looks over and notices Mike's dozed off, chin resting on his own chest, and takes that as permission to change the channel to something less ridiculous.

He wakes from his own doze to see Mike pull the wastebasket toward him from the nearby spot where Harvey had nudged it earler, clutching it like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. "Fuck. Come on, no, not again, please no," he hears Mike whimper before he retches a few times, and it's that dismayed and pleading tone, very nearly a sob, that snaps Harvey out of the shreds of sleep that wrap around his brain. 

Harvey moves without really thinking about it, scooting over on the sofa and rubbing his hand in small circles between Mike's shoulder blades. "Just let it happen," he murmurs as Mike lets out a pathetic noise. "It'll be over faster that way." Harvey's college roommate had been the type of guy who would force everything out as quickly as possible, but Mike's definitely not that kind. Neither is Harvey, for that matter. There were times he'd been sure he'd have to call an ambulance for his roommate, due to the possibility of ruptured organs. Still, there comes a point when fighting it doesn't do anyone any favors.

He keeps the heel of his hand moving in circles until Mike's done, only dimly aware he's doing it. But then Mike moves into the touch, seeking it out like a plant does sunlight, and Harvey finally figures fuck it, he's already in this too deep to deny everything. He slides even closer, until his knee is touching Mike's, and runs the whole palm of his hand up and down Mike's spine in gentle, regular strokes.

"Thanks," Mike finally croaks, but neither of them makes a move toward pulling away.

"Done?" Harvey asks after a while longer, when Mike's breathing is normal. He doesn't want to call attention to his hand on Mike's back, but it's going to be hard to ignore its presence for much longer.

"Think so."

"You okay?"

Mike shifts so he's again reclining on the couch. "Feels like I might have sprained something or torn a muscle," he groans. "Fuck, that hurts. Other than that, yeah, I think I'll live."

"You'd better," Harvey says, eyebrows raised. "Where else am I going to find a smartass associate with an eidetic memory?"

"I'm sure we're a dime a dozen. You might even be able to find one who doesn't get food poisoning right before fundraiser events. Good luck finding one as good-looking and generally awesome as I am, though."

"I'll keep an eye out." Harvey gets up carefully and starts to clean up, watching Mike out of the corner of his eye as he does so. Mike's curled up on himself, shivering and pale; every now and then, he glances Harvey's way and looks like he's about to say something, but he never does. As Harvey's having his own issues figuring out exactly how much of what he's thinking he should say, if anything, he leaves Mike to it. "Be right back," he says after a few moments, still debating why he feels like he should say _something_.

Mike nods as Harvey steps out into the hall, headed for the trash chute. Harvey detours to the bathroom to wash his hands afterward, then grabs a washcloth from the stack under the sink, wetting it and wringing it out. He looks up at his reflection and rolls his eyes. "What the hell happened to your control and distance and stance against emotion?" he murmurs at the man in the mirror, who looks softer than usual, a bit tired, and is definitely missing the smirk he so often wears. Sighing, he shakes his head and heads for the living room again.

Mike shudders as Harvey hands him the warm, damp washcloth several moments later. "Shouldn't have eaten," he says with a little groan, sitting up. He wipes at his face as Harvey stands there with his hands at his sides, both of them seemingly unsure how exactly to proceed. "Don't suppose I've got grounds for a civil suit or something against that restaurant?"

Harvey snorts softly. "Probably not."

Mike looks up at him, face wan, and Harvey sees the calculations and rationalizations going on behind his eyes. "Harvey?"

"Yeah?"

"You had..." He stops and rubs at his face. "You didn't just follow me off that rooftop because you were afraid I'd make you look bad at the event tonight, did you?"

It's hard to lie to the kid's face, because Harvey doesn't actually want to. But doing so might save them both a lot of hassle. He looks at Mike, prepared to do just that, thinking that yeah, murder might be easier sometimes, but, once he gets a look at the earnestness in those blue eyes, he decides against it and sits heavily on the couch. "What finally clued you in? The twentieth time I found myself rubbing your back?"

Mike gives him a small crooked grin. "More like the third. It was kind of hard to have a conversation about it at the time, though, since I didn't think hurling on you would improve how receptive you might be to what I had to say."

"And what _do_ you have to say?"

"You're Harvey Specter. You read people for a living. What do you think?"

And now that he's put it so bluntly, Harvey can drop the dozens of excuses he's made for Mike's behavior in the last few months, all the long looks and deep stares and the way he always seems to angle himself just right, so they're almost touching but aren't actually, should anyone look their way. 

"I see."

Mike offers up another small smile. "And I've learned to read people a little, too. You _care_ for me. Like I said you did months ago. You _do_ have emotions. For me, at least."

Harvey snorts. "Don't get too cocky."

Mike shifts on the sofa, arms wrapped around his stomach, and sighs contentedly when Harvey's automatic response is to put a hand on the back of his neck and stroke his thumb gently over it. "It's not being cocky. It's being right."

Harvey opens up his mouth to argue, but then does something completely uncharacteristic: He gives up. "Fine. You win this one. Now shut up. Get some sleep."

Mike curls up with one of the couch cushions, smiling when Harvey moves his hand and brushes his fingertips through Mike's hair. "Hey, Harvey?" he says, settling in and letting his eyes drift closed. Harvey gently pulls him a little closer, Mike moving easily into him, until his arm is around Mike's hip and Mike's head is rested on Harvey's leg. It feels oddly satisfying to sit like this, like they're both perfectly content to be so close, touching, and not caring to do any more for now.

"What is it?"

"You didn't run away when I threw up. It's love, isn't it?"

Harvey sighs and hides his smile in his shoulder. He's not considered the word yet, doesn't really consider it much in any case, but he doesn't shoot it down either. It might not be so easy to deny. "Shut up, Mike."

Mike grins, squirming until he's comfortable, and buries his face in Harvey's leg as Harvey moves his hand gently up and down Mike's side. "I knew it."


End file.
